


Partially dead.

by thecrownofthereveur



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prose Poem, both english and spanish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:27:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrownofthereveur/pseuds/thecrownofthereveur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is dead, and that's a story that it's repeating.</p><p>______</p><p>A little poem I wrote some days ago about Kieren during the first season. Hope you like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partially dead.

**Author's Note:**

> A little poem I wrote some days ago about Kieren during the first season. I put it both in english and spanish because I originally wrote it in spanish, but thought in english would get more attention. 
> 
> Also I'm not very sure about the date in the first sentence. I know Kieren mentions in the first chapter the date in which he left the rehabilitation center but I don't remember it. Hope you enjoy and apologies if there is any mistake in the english version.

**_Parcialmente muerto._ **

 

Regresé a casa. Hoy 25 de diciembre regresé a casa. Una casa que es mi casa pero no mi hogar. Una casa en donde habitan personas envenenadas por odio que quieren verme muerto, donde mis padres me esconden en el sótano y tienen miedo, donde hay una habitación en la que puedo encontrar pedazos de fotografías y memorias dispersas que se expanden, se repiten como película, como buscando pequeños detalles o recuerdos dentro de recuerdos, o recuerdos que escriben sobre sí mismos.

 

Recuerdos que son pinturas, culpa, cervezas, vómito negro esparcido en la pared del baño o soldados muriendo en Afganistán. O un pecho pesado y delgadas paredes que se derrumban.

 

Es un cuerpo dos veces muerto en la puerta del garaje de tu casa que hace que tus piernas tiemblen y tus ojos duelan. Y no deberían doler, porque los muertos no lloran o respiran o sienten ----- ni por dentro ni por fuera.

 

Pero tú gritas.

Gritas y lloras.

Gritas y estás muerto

o parcialmente muerto.

 

Y tus músculos se destensan, cada articulación se suelta una por una. Eres una bestia, asustada y hambrienta, que camina balanceándose, alimentándose de cerebros humanos. Eres Kieren, pero no eres Kieren. Eres algo con su forma, su figura y sus falsos ojos marrones. Eres un cadáver exquisito que se ha parado de su tumba por asuntos no resueltos que le pesan

que lo aplastan

que lo lastiman

que le dan fuerza a sus pasos arrastrandose por el suelo.

 

Rick está muerto.

Rick está muerto y está muerto dos veces o quinientas más.

Rick está muerto y duele su foto que sonríe a un lado de su epitafio, y dice:

 

‘Nada de lo que hagas hará que Dios

vuelva a amarte. Tu vida se ha ido.

Compra una nueva con esto.’

.’

 

Está muerto y es una historia que se repiteserepiteserepiteserepite.

 

Para.

 

Llévame o arrástrame, quédate estancado en el recuerdo.

No te mueras tres veces,

Dos de verdad y una vez en mi mente.

Quédate aquí adentro.

Y recuérdame de vez en cuando que eres completamente irremplazable.

 

Que aunque haya otro

a quien pueda amar

nunca lo haré por completo,

no con toda el alma

o sin miedo.

 

No. Por no entregarles este pedazo, pedazo triste o trágico o bellamente grabado en alguna parte de mi cerebro medicado, con ojos marrones, con ojos profundos, con ojos que me miran muertos mientras te abrazo, con ojos pintados observándome silenciosos desde la pared de mi habitación.

 

Enero 2015.

 

 

 

 

**_Partially dead._ **

 

 

I’ve come to my house. Today 25 of November I’ve come to my house. A house that is my house but not my home. A house inhabited by people poisoned by hate who want to see me dead, where my parents hide me in the basement and have fear, where there’s a room in which I can find pieces of photos and scattered memories expanding, repeating like movies, like if searching for small details or memories inside memories, or memories written above themselves.

 

Memories that are paintings, guilt, beer or black vomit scattered in the bathroom’s wall or soldiers dying in Afghanistan. Or a heavy chest and tiny walls falling apart.

 

Is a body twice dead in the door of the garage of your house that makes your legs tremble and your eyes hurt.  And it shouldn’t hurt because the dead can’t cry, or breath or feel ----- not in the outside nor in the inside. 

 

But you scream.

You cry and you scream.

You cry and you are dead

or partially dead.

 

And your muscles loosen, every joint slacking one by one. You are a beast, scared and hungry, that walks swinging and eating human brains. You are Kieren, but you are not yourself. You are something with his form and his figure and his fake brown eyes. You are an exquisite cadaver that has stood up from his grave because of unfinished business that weigh you down

smashing

hurting

giving strengths to your footsteps crawling in the ground.

 

Rick is dead.

Rick is dead and he’s twice dead or a hundred times more.

Rick is dead and his picture hurts, smiling beside his epitaph that says:

 

‘Nothing that you do will make God love you again.

Your life is gone. Buy a new one with this.’

.’

 

He’s dead and that’s a story that it’s repeatingrepeatingrepeatingrepeating.

 

Stop.

 

Take me or drag me, stay stock in the memory.

Don’t die three times,

Twice for real and once in my mind.

Stay in here.

And remember from time to time that you are completely irreplaceable.

 

That even if there is another

whom I can love

I will never do so completely

not with all the soul

nor without fear.

 

Just for not give them this piece, sad or tragic or beautifully engraved in some part of my medicated brain with brown eyes, with profound eyes, with dead eyes that are staring at me while I hug you, with painted eyes watching me silently from the wall of my room.

 

January 2015.

 


End file.
